


Those Wicked Secrets

by rainbowBarnacle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Brainbent, Gamzee's dad, Gamzee's mom, Gen, Humanstuck, in which motherfucker is nine-year-old Gamzee's favorite word
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowBarnacle/pseuds/rainbowBarnacle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story set in Luka's Homestuck AU, <a href="http://brainbent.tumblr.com/">Brainbent</a>, which examines a setting in which various Homestuck characters find themselves employed or institutionalized in the St. LOBAF Residential Treatment Center.</p><p>This examines the backstory behind Gamzee Makara and how he wound up there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Wicked Secrets

Your name is Gamzee Makara, you are five years old, and you are quite distressed.

Your mom went and put you down for a nap earlier that afternoon, and after a morning spent chasing june bugs in the backyard and bouncing around on the neighborkid's trampoline, for once you're tired enough that you were out like a light the moment your head hit the pillow.

Only when you wake up, it's to the sound of crickets and the neighbor dog barking and your room is pitch dark. You peek out the window to find that the sun is _gone_ , man, and the idea that the whole day just up and slipped right out from under you like that is strange and terrifying and _wrong_ for reasons you can't quite explain.

You crawl out of bed and wander into the dark, empty living room, and you can't help it, you start to blubber. In addition to the daunting sense of lost time, you have no idea what time it is _now_ , (is it early night or late-late night?) only that you're alone and it's _dark_ and you're awake and this wasn't how things were supposed to go at _all_.

This wakes your mother. She shuffles into the room, murmuring a sleepy question, but you don't hear it—you make a beeline for her legs and cling, and her hand is in your hair and she picks you up and tucks you against her and you bury your face in her throat and feel a bit better.

Then your dad turns on a lamp behind you and you cringe a little, squinting. He isn't smiling, but he isn't shouting either, and you duck as he reaches out with one lanky arm, but then he's just ruffling your hair as he leans against your mom.

“Yo, little man, what's all got your waterworks going?”

You explain and he cracks a smile. “Awww, now. We can't be having that, can we?”

You sit with him on the couch, where he turns on the news. You lean against him and he slips an arm around you. You listen to him breathe and marvel at all the squidgy sounds his insides make, and soon your mom brings you apple juice and a bowl of chicken vegetable soup—the kind with the star noodles—and you shovel it in your mouth sitting between them while they flip channels and smoke cloves and talk about things you don't understand, but you don't mind, because this feels right and you're so relieved that you start laughing, and your dad smiles and pokes your belly and asks what the hell you're giggling at.

They stay with you until you're tired enough to go to sleep again, and when the morning comes, life is easy and normal again.

You're still young enough to think that morning makes everything all right.

* * * *

You are nine years old and your parents are screaming at each other again.

You know better by now than to intervene. You made that mistake exactly once (they woke you out of a sound sleep, and your head hurt, and you just weren't thinking when you wandered into the middle of their fight and asked them to stop) and then your dad slapped you across the face so hard all you could do was stagger and gasp. You bolted back into your room before anything else could happen and stayed in the closet until morning.

Tonight, it's something about Christmas trees. Even though you can hear every word—you can't not; your door consists of a Winnie the Pooh bed sheet and the walls are wafer thin—you don't really get what they're on about. Your mom's for it, your dad is against it.

He explained it to you once during a long, rainy drive, in that same relaxed, certain tone he used when telling you bible stories or history lessons that made you feel safe and enthralled, and you hung on every word of those wicked secrets, 'cause he's your dad and he's the smartest motherfucker you know. You watched the windshield wipers squeak across the glass and he told you how Christmas trees represented the first lie ever told because someone went and decorated it and then said it grew that way.

But you still can't wrap your brain around what that had to do with Christmas or why _you_ couldn't have a tree—it's not like _you_ were going to say it popped out of God's green earth that way; you just wanted to watch the lights flicker and play with the ornaments.

You can tell that this isn't going to be the sort of fight that only lasts a few minutes. You lie still in bed, gripping your pillow and wincing every time your dad's voice lances through you. It's worlds away from the drowsy, velvety tone he uses in everyday speech. In a fight, his voice _booms_ , and you feel it raining down on you like physical blows.

There is a tense silence and you realize you've broken out in a cold sweat. Shakily, you slip out of bed and tiptoe to the small bathroom that's between your bedroom and your parents'. You flick on the light and stand there blinking in the mirror until your eyes adjust. You splash your face with cold water.

Your head hurts.

You know what to do by now, though. In the medicine cabinet is a bottle of Tylenol PM. The childproof cap has nothing on you. You pop that sucker open and swallow a pill dry.

By the time you've dragged your blankets and your pillows and your stuffed sheep toy into the closet and pulled the door closed, you're already feeling heavy and slow. You make a little nest in there and in seconds your parents' voices fade away into nothing, and so do you.

* * * *


End file.
